my fingers are still sailing
the soft bends of your hair
and my eyes are still warm from
the sweet heat of your stare
I’m still sinking in the space
there- just beneath your nose
you’re still weakening my knees
you’re still tangling my toes
I’m still seeing us in stripes
and mirrored sideways smiles
I’m still looking through the stars
I’m still counting all the miles
my breath is still caught
tucked behind your left ear
I can still her an echo:
your voice calling me “dear”
“it’s not as easy as it seems,”
she said to no one who could hear,
“life inside a fishbowl,
it’s just one never ending sphere.”
“sun glares through the crooked glass
in a most unnatural way,
like the reflection in a mirror’s cracks,
or some dry, mishandled clay.”
“the light distorts and bows itself
invisible pinball,
once it drops, there’s no escape,
through mouth or thick round wall.”
“so I rearrange the furniture
and blow bubbles through my straw,
to pass the time, I play and rhyme,
guess that’s what living’s for.”
“no use in sweating small things,”
wait- can a fish even sweat?
“no good is born from worried ones,
there’s no benefit in the fret.”
she swam down deep then floated back
circling round and back around,
finding space in stagnant water
and silence in the sound.
she left her trademark
wet tannin-red kiss
like a map through the park
citrus wedge lower lip
her kisses a maze
on mugs, cups, and cheeks
puzzle-piecing the days
into ruby-stained weeks
story of summer
she imprinted the town
each kiss like thunder
hot, humbling sound
her breadcrumb trail lay
no storm could hide it
holding out for the day
a kiss cartographer might find it
one who read kisses
just the way that she did
smudged on cold objects
arranged in a grid
a new line for her stamp
curved and warm and sweet
she could set up camp
make a home where lips meet.
she whispered many magic things
to the silhouette inside
dangers of the outside world
like love and lust and pride
she warned her of confusing things
what might happen when we die?
and the strangely ever humbling fact
that elephants can cry
she shared with her the nice things, too
butterflies that flutter by
birds and bees and heeled Hermes
winged creatures who can fly
one lucky golden afternoon
the sun brought her silhouette outside
so they promised honest reverie
seeing eye to outlined-eye.
beetle in the bell jar
will you ever be free?
climbing glass walls with glassy eyes
an invisible sight to see
tell me what life was like
before it trapped you here
I’ll sit and blink and think a while
here, please take my ear
why not my cheeks and nose, too?
they could serve you well
see the world through my face for a day
and I’ll put on your shell
it’s dark and hollow in this place
you must not let much light in
through your shiny armor or
under your upturned chin
from the inside now I see
all the beauty that you guard
dewy mornings in the early sun
children playing in the yard
muddy fingers tracing wings
afternoons spent foraging
a soft heat melting gooey air
on which the summer birds sing
I see why you hide now
keeping safe in your deep shell
all the memories you’re missing here
living in a frail glass bell.
Funny, isn’t it? How a place can hold so much meaning in our minds? A smell can make us cry, a crack in the sidewalk can take us back in time. A certain rock shaped like a chair, or a ferris wheel that spins too fast. All brush strokes in this dizzying abstract we paint over the course of our lives.
Sometimes an entire town can wrap itself around us, weaving in and out of our pasts with a whole myriad of “times.” Good ones, bad ones, insignificant tiffs, overwhelming laughs. The little spot on the rocks where you told someone a big secret, the rocking chair where you said your first goodbye. Even as you watch the waves approach and retreat, though you know they are disappearing, it’s tempting to hang on to their imaginary immortality. Nostalgia likes to perceive perpetuality, even in the bold face of nature, as you stand in awe of her constant change.
It’s an indulgent pursuit, to seek sources of nostalgia. Despite this awareness of our intentions, nostalgia’s captivating ruse can pull us in. The remarkable ability to find familiarity in something actually quite foreign; to chase a time long past. The human mind plays all kinds of pretty tricks, if you are willing to let go and let her.
circe can’t go home
oceanid with holographic hair
her formation is terrestrial
every cell hails de la mer
saltwater nymph
imprisoned in her own shell
destined to sway the unwilling
to hold them in her hell
historically avoided
her plea silent like the sea
to be requited is to be understood;
to be understood is to be free
tormented temptress
neither goddess nor goodness, she waits
for the creature who will create her
the only one who holds two fates
circe can’t stay home
her liquid lips must rise
to meet her lightning lover
in the heavy-handed skies
-rainy days in providence inspiring greek mythology poems
I’ve been watching you
For some time
Can’t stop staring
At those oceans eyes
Burning cities
And napalm skies
Fifteen flares inside those ocean eyes
Your ocean eyes
No fair
You really know how to make me cry
When you gimme those ocean eyes
I’m scared
I’ve never fallen from quite this high
Falling into your ocean eyes
Those ocean eyes
I’ve been walking through
A world gone blind
Can’t stop thinking of your diamond mind
Careful creature
Made friends with time
He left her lonely with a diamond mind
And those ocean eyes
-Billie Eilish, Ocean Eyes
a carousel of rays
your tide, a golden sting
ocean eyes are melting me
lips that silently sing
pressed to my chest
your rolling glow burns straight
there’s a new wrinkle to your spoke
unspoken words whirling without weight
bodies crushed
faces flushed
our dance so dangerous
a tango you can touch
sunny circles can’t keep up
with your warm, spiraling bake
you’re spotlighting my summer skin
in your precious golden wake.
Moon river, wider than a mile
I’m crossing you in style someday
Oh, dream maker
You heartbreaker
Where ever you’re going I’m going your way
Two drifters off to see the world
There’s such a lot of world to see
We’re after the same rainbow’s end
Waiting round the bend
My huckleberry friend
Moon river and me
strawberry moon
will you show us your face?
we’ve been waiting since noon
staring up into space
strawberry moon
your rosy cheeks run
please visit us soon
tell your tales of the sun
strawberry moon
bring out your sweet sign
pink night light of June
planets intertwine
strawberry moon
come give us a show
dip out past the spoon
galactic-tac-toe
strawberry moon
we’re wearing your flush
singing summer night’s tune
the lover’s light hush
strawberry moon
let us see you again
we’ll be waiting from noon
goodnight, good friend.
-words from a tired amateur poet at the end of a long, strange day
I don’t know yet what I don’t know, but I do know this: Everyone ever will always surprise you eventually.
It won’t happen at every turn, and it won’t always happen when you least expect it. Sometimes it will be completely out of the blue, sometimes it will confirm a lingering suspicion, but this premonition won’t make your surprise any less, well, surprising.
As humans, we like to put people into neat little boxes. He’s a “bro.” She is “good.” He’s an artist, so he will never be truly emotionally available; She never met her father, so she will always feel damaged. We put people in boxes, on shelves, in tidy compartments with classifications and we predict their futures by reading into their pasts. But the catastrophe of shock is certain, because there is no instruction manual for the human existence.
I’ve spent the past 4 years contemplating the existence of a higher power, but regardless of this inconclusive search, it seems that each life is composed of a series of decisions. Whether these decisions lead to actions that “happen for a reason” or are completely random becomes irrelevant to this conversation, because it does not change the sole thesis that: Everyone ever will always surprise you eventually. And this includes you.
Often times our most surprising selves surface in the wake of shock caused by someone close to us. A person we think we know sets off a surprise chain with some “uncharacteristic” behavior and our reaction, our series of decisions in the cold, unrelenting wake of this surprise, can set a self-surprise into motion.
Of course, surprise doesn’t always come in the form of an action. Sometimes it comes early on, while semi-strangers are becoming friends. The casual reveal of an unexpected detail- something outside their tidy personality box- comes forward and scrambles our premature judgement. The classification conundrum.
In any and every case, though, people are surprising. And even in knowing this, you will be surprised. And that, my friends, is a beautiful promise.
Setting The Barre 